and the world
by fiesa
Summary: All stories are true. Clary doesn't feel different. OneShot, various characters. Movieverse.


**And the world **

_Summary: All stories are true. OneShot, various characters. Movieverse. _

_Warning: see setting. OneShot, drabble-esque._

_Set: Post-movie, because, although I feared it a lot, the movie was good. In its own way. But I tend to see the characters in the books and the movie characters as different people._

_Disclaimer: Standards apply._

_A/N: Sept 2013. Part 2 of a massive upload session. _

* * *

_**1.**_

_(All stories are true.)_

It hammered through Clary's head, again and again: nothing she would ever forget again. The scar on her hand still burned. Phantom pain: a dark, alien feeling that crept up her arm and made her shoulder tingle. The rune had faded, leaving the traces of a silvery scar: _Clary, what kind of rune is that? I've never seen it before. _Reluctant to overwrite the scar on her left hand she had used her other one, awkwardly carving the new rune with her weaker hand. _(Jace was left-handed.) _The shattered furniture melted together again, broken crockery putting itself together, slipping back into place. A picture-frame jumped onto its nail, coming to sit on the wall still shaking from the sudden movement. Canvas folded itself back over wooden skeletons. And all the while she felt the burning sensation in her back, as if someone was watching her, _Clarissa, I don't think these runes were meant to be used to do your household chores. _But when Jace finally stepped into the room he did not say anything.

_(And she really, really wants to touch him right there.)_

Golden hair, golden eyes, he'd never looked more beautiful to her but then she'd never been like _this_ in all her life. Clary, daughter to Jocelyn, Clary, best friend of Simon, Clary, artist and dreamer: that Clary was dead. Here she was, Clarissa Morgenstern, Shadowhunter with the blood of the Angel in her veins and the power of runes in her mind, and she had never felt so alien before. Fact: She can almost feel Jace's voice tremble when he tells her he came to check on her and she can sense the unspoken lie. He's as afraid as she is. Jace, who never was afraid, Jace, who walked into a Vampires' nest without a second thought – _I thought you were the bravest person on earth, doing everything just to save your friend – _Jace, who had fought Valentine even if he was the only one he'd ever known as a father.

_(Because all stories are true, all lies have a core: Jace loves his father.)_

And yet. So Clary was Valentine's daughter: _You look just like your mother, Clarissa. _Strange: Luke's voice, not Valentine's. Luke was a werewolf – but he had been a Nephilim once. Whatever happened to turn him: _he_ had been there for as long as she could remember, not Valentine. Had picked her up from school, had bought her ice-cream, had sorted through the new arrivals to see whether there were books she would like. Luke was her father, not Valentine, in every aspect that mattered. It wasn't that easy for Jace. _He made me everything I am today. _And somehow it made her sad. All those feelings, the grief, the yearning: All those years Jace had lost by believing his father dead. And then Valentine returned and Clary could see all the disbelief, the denial. She felt it, too. _I don't believe him. _Hope, cruel and painful: she told herself not to believe in it but a tiny part screamed that it was the thing she wanted. Her arms around Jace: warm, solid, his leather jacket against her cheek, his scent in her nose and his profile in front of her mind's eye. Jace, Jace, Jace. _Can't you see it? She does not want to believe because she loves you. _Valentine's voice: silky, seductive, so sure of himself.

_(Jace had never said anything to that.)_

* * *

_**2.**_

_(Don't look at her that way.)_

Going by that, Jace immensely disliked the way Valentine had _touched_ Clary, too. He knew why: He'd seen his glance. The desperate look of someone who knew the thing he wanted was right in front of him – and yet he would never have it. So Valentine loved Jocelyn, in a possessive, demanding way Jace did not really want to think of. And he saw Jocelyn in Clary – they were alike and yet different, in their own, unique ways – and therefore, he talked to Clary as he would to Jocelyn. Jace would have preferred if he hadn't talked to Clary at all. Jace would have preferred many things that second. Unfortunately, none of them got to choose. Strange – weren't choices the one thing that made men different from beasts? But then, Jace had never seen an angel before, and he highly doubted there was a god.

_(It is sickening, Jonathan, the way you look at your sister.)_

A long, long time ago, Jace had been a child. He had been living with his father, he had been taught by his father – for a long, long time there had been nothing and nobody except for the two of them. And Jace had loved his father, despite the fear and the pain. He had _loved_ him. Through all the buried memories he knew this one thing with startling clarity. Jace knew, with the same certainty that he felt when thinking of Clary, that his father had been cruel, and cold: but he had been his _father_. Had he forgotten his face, all those years? Perhaps. But then, images faded with time – other things did not.

_(He still felt his falcon's blood, hot and sticky. To love is to destroy.)_

One image danced in front of his eyes. Clary, Clary's face, Clary as she looked at him in the Institute garden, Clary as she screamed for Simon, Clary as she shot the vampire, Clary, her – _his_ – dagger at Valentine's throat. Jace himself, spinning her away, facing her: _Let him explain first. _The expression on her face had been so full of anger and disbelief he had felt physically ill. He had believed Valentine, had even agreed with his opinion: the Clave was corrupt, the numbers of Shadowhunters was decreasing. The Cup could help. They would save their people, save the planet, save a million of Mundies. No harm in that, right? They only needed the Cup and Clary had access to it. At that point Jace would have done everything for his father. And then Valentine had hurt Clary – and something had _snapped_ inside of him. There was no explanation, really, nothing he could tell her to make it better: nothing he could tell himself to make it better, either. In the middle of her now-tidy and clean room he watched her and couldn't help the thrill that shot through him at her sight. It would never change; no matter how often he looked at her – Jace, although he didn't know what to think at all, was pretty sure of _that. _It just couldn't be: Valentine had to be lying. Still, doubt remained. But he so, so wanted to believe, just for once in his life. God, Clary was beautiful.

_(Who is the real traitor, now?)_

* * *

**_3. _**

Jocelyn looks like she is only sleeping and if Luke closes his eyes for a second and wills the world away he can forget that she is in a coma. He can forget that Valentine is back, that Clary has a strange, dangerous power for which the Clave will want to use her; Luke can forget that half of his pack is dead and that the Institute is in ruins.

_Instead, he remembers:_

A clear summer sky in Idris, the ground was still warm from the day's heat, and Jocelyn's head rested familiarly against his shoulder. He is eight and he never felt so awake before in his life.

"Look," she whispered, "Cassiopeia. She really has the shape of a w."

"There's the Great Wagon," he said, his voice hushed, as well. There was a magic in the air neither one of them understood but both felt. "And the Summer Triangle: Vega in the Lyra, Deneb in the Swan and Altair in the Eagle. And there, the weak diamond shape? It's the Dolphin."

Jocelyn didn't answer but he could feel her nod against his shoulder.

"Jocelyn," Lucian suddenly whispered, hoarsely, "Did you see that? A shooting star! Quick, make a wish!"

"Shooting stars don't fulfill wishes," she answered quietly. "They're too fast. You have to repeat your wish three times in order for God to fulfill them, and that's impossible."

_He remembers_:

"Lucian!" Valentine's hand descended onto his shoulder heavily and warmly. Whirling around, Lucian faced his friend.

"Congratulations!" Valentine gripped his wrist and shook his hand, a small smile on his face and approval clear in his eyes. "I knew you could do it."

"I wouldn't have been able to do it without your help," Lucian answered sincerely and felt his throat tighten. "Thank you, Valentine."

"You did it all by yourself and you know that. Now that you've passed that test, too, what do you think of becoming my parabatai?"

Stunned, Lucian blinked. Valentine hit him on the shoulder a second time. "Think about it. There's no one I'd rather have by my side than you." With that, he turned and left, letting Amatis take his place.

"Luke!"

Over her short stature, Lucian caught sight of Jocelyn. She was frowning at him from across the garden. With a throb of pain, Lucian turned away from her: she hadn't believed he could do it, either.

_He remembers:_

"Hey." Jocelyn had somehow, inexplicably, appeared behind him. He hadn't thought anything would escape his wolf instincts but then she was a Nephilim no matter how much she denied it.

"Where are – ah."

Clary and Simon had fallen asleep, Clary on Luke's lap, Simon on the rest of the Hollywood Seat, they were so entangled it was hard to say which part belonged to which child. Luke, who had been reading until then, set down his book – he was going through the _Lord of the Rings_ again – and blinked at her. "You're back."

With a loving glance at her daughter and a soft touch of her hand on Luke's nape Jocelyn sighed and lowered herself on the ground in front of the swing. Leaning back, her head came to rest on Luke's knee. He caressed Clary's mop of red and gold, smiling softly.

"Sorry for dumping the two terrors on you so suddenly. Were they terribly annoying?"

"Oh, not at all," Luke chuckled. "They had a busy day."

"They never fall asleep at home," Jocelyn replied, closing her eyes. "How did you do it?"

Luke just shrugged.

"I shouldn't be surprised," she added, her voice becoming softer and softer. "It's always so peaceful with you."

She was half asleep, Luke knew, her guard was down and she probably wouldn't remember her words when she woke again. But he couldn't help the warmth that filled him, flowed through his veins like liquid.

He could have sat there forever, Jocelyn and Clary by his side.

But Clary wasn't the innocent little girl anymore, and Jocelyn was in a coma. It didn't change the fact, though, that he loved them both more than he loved his own life.

_Wake up, Jocelyn. _

* * *

**_4. _**

_(You are beautiful.)_

_Luke. _

Voices: Pangborn and Blackwell's, first, and then Simon and – _Maryse_ – but no, Maryse would not be with Simon, she wouldn't sound that young. _Maryse. _They had been friends once. Jocelyn's heart ached. Valentine, then. _I love you, Jocelyn, I never stopped loving you. _His hands, hot and scarred, the scrub of his stubble scratching her sensitive skin, his hot breath next to her ear. _See what I've achieved. _And with all her heart, all her mind, she wished to be able to strike out and kill him: but she was frozen, and he was too far away. Then, another voice, none she knew. Simon would have loved the irony, she thought, seething in anger: _I am your father, Jonathan._ Lies, lies and more lies, she remembered every word, every pause he had made between the sentences. Valentine never had been irrational; he always was sensible, rational and emphatic. The lie he told was so cruel she felt her heart break. And then Clary entered – her brave, strong daughter – and Jocelyn would have sobbed, would have thrown herself before her daughter, but she could just lie there and listen. _Oh Clary, Clary, Luke was right: you were ready. I am so, so sorry. _And then Valentine made the lie even more horrible.

_(He'd always been like that: snatch away everything beautiful and corrupt it, because that meant it belonged to him then.)_

Her world fractured.

_(Wake up. Please. I need you.)_

Luke.

Luke, _her_ Luke: big, calloused warm hands she would recognize everywhere, his voice that had accompanied her her entire life. Luke, six years old and her best friend, stealing cherries from neighbors' trees with her, both of them escaping, laughing so hard they could barely run. Luke, sixteen, awkward, lanky, short-sighed and shy, Luke, twenty-three, scarred, changed, always on her side no matter how much she had hurt him, so lost and so broken and yet so determined to stop Valentine. Luke, her best and oldest friend, the person she trusted most – Luke, always by her side. Luke – his figure disappearing in the crowd of people at Charles de Gaulle Airport, looking as lost as she felt but _I have to leave, Luke. I have to protect her_. Luke, in her door, dripping wet, anxiety and fear written all over his face. Again, Luke, Lucian, Luke, like a million pieces that made her heart. And with sudden, earth-shattering clarity Jocelyn knew she loved him.

_(Go on. Hurt him again.)_

In fact, hurting him had been the only thing she'd ever done, hadn't it? But she was _selfish. _She _wanted_ him in her life . She'd let him into her life even though she'd known it was difficult to explain to Clary. She'd kept him close, had spent time with him, unable to let go, unable to live without him. Jocelyn knew it had been wrong – but she had wanted _him_ so badly she hadn't been thinking straight. _And he never had complained, hadn't he? _Of course. Luke would have killed himself had she asked it of him. It was stupid, him being such a damn _good_ person. So nice, so loyal and kind. Jocelyn pitied kind people: people like her always took advantage of them. Kind people were exploited, were hurt by other people's selfishness and pride and they didn't even notice it. The world was not a kind one, not suited for people like him. Sometimes in the past Jocelyn had caught herself thinking that it was ridiculous, this attitude of friendliness and kindness Luke always had shown. He'd only get _hurt. _She was the best example: he was still sticking around, despite the years, despite the fact that she hadn't once thanked him, hadn't once told him she appreciated it. He treated Clary as his own daughter – the best she had done was fight with him over it, because he _wasn't_ Clary's father and she did not want him to take responsibility that would tie him to them even more. That way she could tell herself it had been for him when she was angry with him, but somehow, it did not make her feel better. _Don't look at me like that._ He had a way, this glance that told her more than she wanted to know. Truth, when seen in the eyes of a dear person, hurt most. Jocelyn always was aware of that.

_(At the same time, she never wants him to stop.)_

* * *

**_5. _**

Jace's voice still rings in her head: You_ have changed. _

Clary thinks it isn't true. She is still the same: Clarissa Fray, short, red-haired, fair-skinned and freckled, dreamer, artist, manga-loving High School-girl. She has a mother, and she has Luke and Simon. She likes her drawing lessons and coffee at Java Jones and spending hours at Forbidden Planet's and weird anime. She's nothing special.

Clary is still the same. The _world_ around her has changed.

But maybe, slowly, bit by bit, this shifting world will change _Clary_, too_. _


End file.
